


With You 'Til the End

by Arkhaline



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst without a happy ending, Blood, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, RvB Secret Santa, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21962620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkhaline/pseuds/Arkhaline
Summary: “What in the name of Sam Hill is goin’ on over there?” yelled a voice through Simmons’ helmet, but he hardly registered it through the cacophony enveloping the world around him. Maybe if Simmons had tried just a little bit harder, the love of his life wouldn’t be bleeding out on the floor in front of him.
Relationships: Dexter Grif & Dick Simmons, Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	With You 'Til the End

“What in the name of Sam Hill is goin’ on over there?” yelled a voice through Simmons’ helmet, but he hardly registered it through the cacophony enveloping the world around him. Bullets whizzed past him on all sides as he bolted across the field. Grif, Sarge, and himself were only leading a supply raid for the United Army of Chorus, that’s all. But somewhere along the line, something gave, someone ratted them out,  _ something _ happened, and the pirates were waiting for them. Voices frantically answered Sarge’s question, but it was all just meaningless noise in his ears.

And maybe if Simmons had tried just a little bit harder, ran the calculations just a few more times, checked the plans once more, he wouldn’t be in this position. No one would have known about their raid. The army would have received the supplies they need. And the love of his life wouldn’t be bleeding out on the floor in front of him.

***

In seventh grade, Dick was heading home from another grueling game of soccer as he rubbed the bruise rapidly forming on his arm. He ended up running into a boy heading the same way. At first, Dick found Arin to be horribly annoying, but he was adamant about being in his good graces. After a few days, Arin began to bring water bottles and a rag for their walk home so that Dick could refresh himself after a practice. Not long after, Dick found himself with a homemade snack of some sort every day. Arin was a try-hard, sure, but Dick had never had someone he wasn’t directly related care for him that much.

Arin tried to make small talk about sports at first, but it became abundantly clear that Dick hated the whole thing. It worked out, though, because Arin was more into cooking. They bonded over the science that came with combining different foods, and it wasn’t long before Dick found himself, albeit reluctantly, looking forward to their evening walks.

“What do you think lies in space?” asked Arin on their way home from school one day. Dick turned his head with practiced ease as he removed the plastic from his vegetable wrap.

“You mean besides planets, Sanghelli, and all of that other shit? Probably countless other alien species that the government doesn’t want us to know about,” he responded.

“Probably. You know, I think that, once I grow up, I’d like to go somewhere else, somewhere so far away that I can’t even fathom what it would be like.”

“Why? What could you do as a chef in space that you couldn’t on Earth?”

“I mean, lots of things, I guess,” Arin said as he looked at the ground, kicking a pebble along. “I’d have access to completely different ingredients, not to mention the cultures that human colonists would develop on different planets. But that’s not the point: I want to travel the universe, see things that I never could have dreamed of. It’d just be fantastic, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s fair, even if it is really fucking corny,” Dick cracked with a semi-grin.

“Hey!” exclaimed Arin with mock offense, a hand flying to his chest as he gaped.

“Whatever, man. But yeah, I think you’re right; I see myself out there in the universe, studying science. Maybe I’ll be a renowned winner of a Nobel Peace Prize.”

“Yeah, maybe. How are you gonna get out there, though?”

“Don’t know. I’ll figure something out though; I always do.”

Arin turned to his friend excitedly. “Hey, maybe we can explore the galaxy together!” And, oh, there was something about that statement that made Dick’s heart flutter in a way that he  _ did not _ like. A lifetime exploring the galaxy with Arin, testing his latest dishes, studying new places as they explore, late nights looking at the stars… wait, what the fuck? The fuck was that about? Dick didn’t like Arin that way, never has, never will, they’re just friends.

Shit, who is he kidding? This is bad. This is really, really bad.

Dick coughed. “Yeah, I uh… Yeah, maybe. Yeah.” And he smiled.

***

Two months later, Dick came out as gay to Arin, the day after he learned that Arin had a girlfriend. Arin looked at him weird for a moment before shrugging and continuing on their walk. Dick  _ definitely _ had no idea how to read that, but he decided not to think too much about it as he ran to keep up with Arin (he would definitely overthink it that night).

A few weeks after that, Dick waited for Arin for an hour. He never showed. From that point on, he began walking home with his girlfriend, while Dick was left to walk home by himself. He had spent years making the trip to his house on his own, but for the first time, he had never felt so lonely.

***

By the time his eighteenth birthday rolled around, he had hardly thought of Arin in years. As far as he knew, he had had a few other girlfriends since, but that was all. He refused to come out to his parents as gay, but that didn’t make it any less awkward when his parents tried to force him upon the nearest girl.

He never forgot the conversation that he and Arin had about space. Dick doubted he’d ever make it into space of his own accord, but the hostilities between the UNSC and the Covenant were rapidly increasing. Reluctantly, he became aware of what he had to do.

As soon as he graduated, he enlisted with the UNSC in the army. Finally able to reinvent himself, Dick became Simmons. No one knew who he was, and he could finally pursue something he loved.

Of course, that was all a bit idealistic. Instead of finding himself working in labs or fighting against the Covenant, Private Simmons was reassigned to the Red Team and sent to train under Drill Sergeant Hammer. He ended up meeting Private Grif, who was a good-for-nothing, lazy, worthless recruit who should be anywhere  _ other _ than the front lines.

So, of course, they were both sent to the same outpost together after the little “incident” with Hammer. Simmons knew that he and Grif didn’t do shit during their mission, but he assumed that he was being recognized for his general prestige. But Grif was a man who lacked prestige in all forms, so why was he leaving too? Simmons told himself that it was because they trusted him to watch over Grif, and that’s that.

On the transport to their new outpost, Grif turned to Simmons. He put his arms behind his head and crossed his legs in feigned nonchalance. “You know, Hammer probably wouldn’t have died if you had followed his lead.” Simmons’ head whipped to look at the man in orange beside him.

“What the fuck? Of course he would have! We were significantly outnumbered, and he was the one who wanted to enter the Blues’ base anyway. He asked for it!” he huffed, arms crossed as he glared through his visor.

Grif cocked his head as if considering this. “I dunno… I mean, who knows, maybe your skills would have been exactly what he needed to win. Poor Hammer couldn’t do it  _ all _ on his own. May he rest in peace,” he tacked on, looking down.

“You idi— Grif, it was a  _ fucking bomb _ . I literally could have done nothing.”

“And how am I supposed to know that you’re not flame retardant?”

“W- what the fuck, of course I’m not? Hell, how do I know  _ you’re  _ not flame retardant? What says that you couldn’t have saved him?”

“What the fuck, of course I’m not?” he mocked. “Seriously dude, calm down. Look, you live and learn, right? Next time, I’m sure you’re run straight into a burning building because you’ve discovered your new powers. You’re welcome.”

Simmons put his head in his hands and muttered almost unintelligibly, “I’m being partnered up with an idiot.”

“Hey, I take offense to that. I am a  _ first-class  _ idiot.”

“Stop your fucking lovers’ quarrel,” came a voice from the cockpit of the Pelican. We’re here. Boys, welcome to Blood Gulch Outpost Number One. Now get the fuck off of my ship.”

***

“Uh… Grif?” asked Donut as he turns around.

“Oh for fuck’s— Donut, did you leave Grif to fend for himself against a  _ fucking tank _ ?!” exclaimed Simmons, his left eye twitching slightly.

“I’m sure he’s fine, the little cockroach can handle a little tank,” added Sarge. There was a pause. “But, uh, let’s go check on him, you know, just in case.” They stood there for a second before all three men were running toward the front of Red Base. Simmons wasn’t sure where he found the speed, but he made it there first. He fell to his knees and held in the urge to vomit.

“Holy shit, Grif? Are you there?” he asked as he carefully lifted Grif into a sitting position in his arms, his voice slightly more frantic than he’d ever care to admit. 

“Oh my God…,” said Donut as he and Sarge arrived on the scene. “Is he…?”

“No, the vitals on my HUD say he’s alive, but fadin’ fast,” grumbled Sarge, tone lower and more serious than Simmons had ever heard it. “We’ll have to do surgery, and soon, if we want him to have any chance.” It took all three men to hoist the dead weight, but they managed to get him to the base’s kitchen. Simmons felt sick to his stomach in a way he’d never felt and scared in a way he thought impossible. As Sarge and Donut stripped Grif of his armor and prepared the room, Simmons couldn’t help but watch, paralyzed. He fucking hated to admit it, but he couldn’t lose Grif, he couldn’t, he—

_ Shit. _

As Sarge reviewed the vitals on his HUD, he shook his head. “We’d need a completely new set of organs. There’s nothing we can do.” He turned to Simmons. “I’m sorry, son.”

“B-But…” Simmons stuttered, heart rate accelerating as he felt himself shutting down. Donut shot him a brief look of sympathy. Grif… he couldn’t… there had to be a way… 

“Wait!” he exclaimed, causing everyone to jump. “Those extra cyborg parts you have, the ones you were gonna use on me? Just use them, and give my organs to Grif. That would work, wouldn’t it?” And Simmons knew that the odds that his organs are compatible with Grif were astronomical, but he was going to take that chance.

Donut and Sarge exchanged a glance that Simmons couldn’t quite decipher, but then Sarge nodded. “Take off yer armor and get on the table.” He obeyed, doing everything in his power to ignore his earlier revelation. Taking a breath, he laid down on the table beside Grif, the fluorescent lights blazing down on him. He looked to his left and met Grif’s closed eyes.

“You’d better fucking live, you asshole.”

***

“Grif, we’re absolutely  _ fucked _ !” Simmons shrieked as he burst into his sergeant’s room. Grif, who’d been sleeping, yelped as he tumbled out of his bed. When he saw the maroon armor, he just sighed and rolled over.

“Simmons, what the fuck are you talking about, and can it wait until morning?” he mumbled.

“No, you dick! Get up, they know we’ve been selling the ammo!” That caught his attention, causing Grif to sit straight up.

“What did you say…?” he asked, voice quiet.

“You heard me! Fuck, Grif, what are we going to do?” He began frantically pacing, hands on his helmet as if he could run his fingers through his hair. “If we run, we’ll be deserting, but if we stay, it’ll be treason. Either way, we’re fucked.”

“Fuck it. Simmons, calm the fuck down.” This pulled the maroon soldier from his panic as he looked up at his friend. “At least one way we might survive. We have to leave.”

“But we’re in the middle of nowhere and… no, no, we have to go. Okay. Okay, yeah, let’s go.” Simmons moved to his window and threw it open. There’s a slight drop to the ground, but whatever, they could handle it. He threw one leg out the window, grabbed the frame, and then moved his other leg so he was dangling.

“I meant through the door, dumbass! The fuck are you doing?” exclaimed Grif as he ran to the window, looking down at Simmons.

“Do you want to get caught? They’re obviously looking for us!” he retorted.

“Good point!” he screamed back with equal franticity.

They dropped to the ground below and broke out into a full-blown sprint, Simmons hardly able to hear anything between the sound of his own panting reverberating in the helmet and the sound of their boots clanking on the pavement. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought that this was the fastest he’d ever seen Grif move. Of course, in all their haste, they forgot one important detail: the Reds in the base have Warthogs.

He heard gunfire pepper the ground around him, and he looked at Grif, who seemed level-headed enough despite the rapid cursing under his breath. A Warthog flanked them on either side, and, before they knew it, all five of their teammates had their guns leveled at their helmets.

“Well, shit,” muttered Grif. Simmons couldn’t help but agree.

They were stripped of their firearms and thrown into the back of a Warthog, wrists bound. “This fucking blows,” Grif sighed. The maroon soldier turned to look at his friend, who was sitting with a slight slouch, but he caught the tension in his shoulders. Yet the air of nonchalance that he gave off, well, Simmons couldn’t help but respect. If you’re gonna die anyway, may as well make your attackers seem like they accomplished nothing.

Before he knew it, the two men were lined up in front of a wall whilst making whatever attempt they could to delay the inevitable. “Ready weapons!” came a voice, and Simmons felt his heart stop. They say that, when you face death, you see your life flash before your eyes. And he did; Simmons saw soccer games and walks with Arin and graduation. He saw enlisting and he saw Blood Gulch and he saw late nights laughing with Grif and early mornings bickering with Grif and everything just came back to  _ Grif _ —

_ He remembered a night, a very, very long time ago, back in Blood Gulch Outpost Number One after their surgery. Simmons was flexing his new arm while sitting in bed, studying the complex mechanics he certainly didn’t think Sarge was capable of creating. When he looked up, it was to Grif staring at the ceiling. The skin grafts were facing him, and he shuddered, unable to believe that he would ever get used to seeing his skin on Grif’s body (he did). _

_ “This sucks, you know,” he said finally, earning Grif’s attention. “You got fucked, and I got fucked as collateral.” _

_ “That’s gay,” Grif retorted, laughing as Simmons sputtered in an attempt to rephrase his statement. “Relax, I’m kidding.” _

_ “I know that, you asshole. It just blows that we’re both kinda fucked up now.” _

_ “Weren’t we before? Least I don’t have a fax machine for an ass.” _

_ “Hey!  _ This _ fax-ass was to save  _ your _ sorry ass. Asshole.” _

_ “Whatever, man,” he said, turning to look at Simmons. His heterochromatic eyes shone in the moonlight pouring through the window, the faintest of smiles dusting his face. Simmons gulped, looking in the other direction so that Grif couldn’t see his face heating up. _

_ “Whatever, asshole, I’m going to bed,” he muttered, pressing his eyes closed as he tried to collect himself. He  _ definitely _ didn’t like Grif, there was no way, right? Right. Grif was a fatass and lazy, and everything Simmons didn’t want for himself… _

_ But opposites attract, don’t they? And besides, Grif was funny and always willing to drop everything for a conversation, and Simmons really valued their relationship. _

_ He fell asleep that night pretending that he was confused, but, deep down, he had never been more certain of anything. _

Simmons was pulled back to the moment, guns aimed as his face as he looked at Grif. This was it. He was going to die. But he sure as Hell wasn’t going to go with any regrets.

“ Grif, this looks like it's it. Listen, there's something I always wanted to tell you,” he forced out finally, fear gone in the face of inevitability.

“I have something I want to say to you too, buddy.” Simmons’ heart stopped. Maybe this was it, Grif was going to say he loved him, too. But, ever the logical one, he decided that it was better safe than sorry.

“You first.”

“Ready!” yelled their teammate.

“It was me that stole your identity and ran up all those credit card charges at the pawn shops and peep shows. Sorry.” Simmons took a step back. What the fuck. What the actual fuck. He felt like such an idiot, steeling himself as he turned away from his friend and looked directly into the barrels of the guns before him.

“Aim!”

“Whew! I feel so much better now that I got that off my chest! So, what do you wanna say to me?”

“I seem to have forgotten. Hey asshole, can we hurry this up?”

“Fire!”

***

The night after the confrontation on Sidewinder, Simmons found himself holding onto the turret of a Warthog as Grif, Sarge, and himself drove towards the nearest Red Base. They, along with the Blues in another vehicle, were going to recuperate before deciding their next course of action. Every part of Simmons ached, and he was pretty sure some of his mechanical components were leaking oil into his suit. 

But more than anything, he was shaken up over the whole fight that had just happened. He  _ watched _ Grif go flying over a cliff, felt grief decimate him a thousand times over as Grif called his name. 

And then he was okay. God, he was okay, and the relief he felt was so staggering that it was a wonder his knees didn’t give out. It took all of his restraint not to pull him into a hug and never let go. And Simmons was so terrified that he would never have the chance to tell Grif how he felt, but he didn’t know how it would go. Grif was probably straight—that much he knew—and Simmons desperately didn’t want to ruin their relationship; he valued their friendship over all else. But, God, he wanted more. He wanted so much fucking more.

So, that night, when they all limped into the long-since abandoned base, Simmons told himself that he would do it, that he would tell Grif he loved him.

As Grif began to release his armor, his stance radiating exhaustion, Simmons felt his throat close up. He knew he had to say something, that it would be too difficult to go on without making his feelings known. He just had to do it. Right? “Hey, Grif?”

“Yeah?” said the other man, turning to meet his eyes. They looked at each other for a second, and Simmons realized that he couldn’t go through with it. He knew that if he was selfish enough to divulge his feelings, their friendship would be ruined. And as much as it hurt to live with an unrequited crush, it would hurt even more to lose Grif altogether.

“Glad your fatass is still here,” he resigned to saying finally, and he genuinely meant it. Grif scoffed, but there was no real malice to it.

“Glad to be here, buddy,” he responded, with a smile soft enough to make Simmons’ knees weak.

“Yeah,” he whispered as he climbed into bed, staring at the cold steel above him. Yeah.

***

Everything rushed through his mind, hitting Simmons like a freight train as he collapsed to his knees at Grif’s side, his chest rising and falling in disjointed, pained gasps as he grasped at Simmons' arm. The maroon soldier looked up to scan their surroundings, and, once he was satisfied that they had sufficient cover, ripped off Grif’s helmet as frantically as he could. They locked eyes, and his heart stopped when he took in the true fear in them. Blood leaked from his mouth as he let out wet, wheezing coughs. Simmons finally mustered the courage to look down and gasped softly when he saw the bullet holes peppering the orange chestplate.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Grif, look, it’s going to be okay, alright? I—  _ fuck _ ,” he repeated, desperately pressing his hands against the wounds in a futile effort to stop the bleeding. He swallowed his pride, pressed a button on the side of his helmet, and, ignoring the blood coating his hand, began to plead. “This is Captain Simmons, Captain Grif is down and—” his voice cracked as he fought back tears. “I’m sending my coordinates, just— please, someone help, anyone,  _ please _ .” 

He was met with a deafening silence. He could tell Sarge was on his way based on the movement on his HUD, but he knew he wouldn’t get here in time; he was too far away, and Grif was losing blood fast. Simmons looked back at his paling friend, leaning down. “Look, help is on the way, okay? You’ll make it, you’ll be fine. You  _ have _ to be fine,” he added, saying that last bit more to himself than anyone else.

Grif shook his head softly. “I’m sorry, Dick,” he whispered, so faint that Simmons had to lean even further to hear him. “I’m sorry.” And with a final exhale, his eyes fell out of focus and the hand on Simmons’ shoulder fell slack.

“No… no, no, no, no, no,” he chanted under his breath as he pressed his hand against his neck to check his pulse despite the fact that he could see his flat-lined vitals on his HUD. “This can’t be happening, this— God fucking damn it!” he screamed, tears pouring down his face as he lifted his friend and pulled him into a tight hug. He registered Sarge’s appearance in his periphery before he stopped cold, but Simmons couldn’t really be bothered to care.

Simmons held his friend a little further back, lifting a hand to close his eyes. He blinked back tears as stared at his face, taking in every little detail.

“I never even got to tell you that I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is for not-very-cashmoney-of-you on Tumblr for the RvB Secret Santa 2019! It was so fun to write this and explore Grif and Simmons' dynamic throughout the series, so I hope you enjoy this. Happy holidays!


End file.
